


Anchor

by hallahart



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Pre-Relationship, UST, a little fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hallahart/pseuds/hallahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Anchor hurts. Solas notices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchor

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-Haven, pre-Fade smooches. I was in a mood writing this, so... sorry for any gratuitous angst!

Magic thrums up her arm-- today it's rhythmic, almost pleasant, a steady beat as she slams her staff into the earth, lightning snapping out in an arc at a pack of demons.

Later, she'll pay for it. Later, in her bedroll, teeth clenched and nostrils flaring -- it's not a pretty pain -- she'll suck in each breath, shuddering, muscles cramping and flexing out of her control, her hand shaking so hard that they must hear it, they must. And if they know how bad it is, how little she can control it, she'll be in the dark again, dark and grey and too many eyes, and if she could only just be quiet-- for all that she is now Inquisitor, she is also a tool, and a tool that cannot fulfill its function is worse than useless.

And still they call her Herald, and defer to her, and kneel to her, and sometimes her hand wants to rise and _snap_ and they'll all be gone, as easy as closing a door. But she doesn't. She won't. And it's not her, it's this _thing_ , a thing she has quietly begun thinking of as a curse.

Selfish, of course—it’s a curse that’s sealed the Breach, a curse that’s saved lives beyond counting. A blessing from the Maker, they say, sent to save them. But these humans love to watch their prophets burn, tears in their eyes.

And when she bites her tongue at night from the pain, she wipes the blood away before the others rise. And when the lightning she summons is corrupted with veins of green fire, she doesn't speak of it. And when she pushes back the flaps of her tent in the morning with dark circles and red eyes, they at least avert their eyes and spare her dignity. 

They all have nightmares, now, after Haven, and she's not the only one who wakes with a scream caught in her throat. Too much death. Skyhold, for all its solid buttresses and yards-thick stone walls, feels like a temporary reprieve. Too good to be true.

She wakes before dawn, another bad dream, and it's as if June himself is hammering an iron rod into the juncture of her left wrist. A blunt pain, without finesse. She won't get back to sleep. Might as well get an early start.

It's her fourth 'early start' that week, but the rifts the scouts reported on the Storm Coast won’t wait around for her sleep schedule to improve.

Their campsite, in a clearing deep within the forests off the coast, is dark and deserted. She lights the campfire with a gesture, left arm tucked securely against her chest. Close to the fire, she closes her eyes and imagines it’s the sun warming her, and the ache in her wrist starts to fade.

"Sleep well?" Solas emerges from the tree line after a time, bedroll tucked under one arm.

She can't help but read his tone as sardonic. "Like a baby," she snaps. Her left arm twinges, but not so badly that she can't ignore it. He's as infuriatingly well-rested as ever. But then, sleeping is practically his job.

He _hmmm_ s to himself, unfazed by her foul mood. He pulls some shredded oats out of his pack and offers half to her. “Hungry?”

She shakes her head. Breakfast before sunrise always makes her feel sick, but he always offers all the same.

They sit in companionable silence as he chews and she stirs the embers. She imagines him out in the wilderness, sleeping among ruins, setting traps and eating alone, no one for company but giant spiders and the occasional deer. It makes her gut twist, and she’s not sure why.

He eats more elegantly than she’d have expected from a hermetic apostate. Good manners. Good posture. Yes, he’s so _very_ polite. She’s practiced enough at wearing masks that she can recognize one when she sees it. She holds the rare moments when his mask falls dear to her heart. Sometimes, during these morning meetings, they talk—about his travels, about her clan, about their friends—but the best times are when they don’t, and merely trade smiles across the fire. His calm presence takes the edge off her nightmares, makes them feel far away.

The intermittent drizzle eventually soaks even her magicked fire down to embers. No matter—the benefits of being a mage. Lost in thought, her tug on the veil is absentminded, thoughtless—and utterly _wrong_. She manages to stifle the cry of pain but of course Solas notices—how couldn't he, with her mark flashing out of control, throwing eerie green light around their clearing.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” she groans, gritting her teeth, heat rising to her cheeks. Aside from the pain, it’s just embarrassing. Pulling on the energy of the mark instead of the veil—a stupid mistake, one she usually only made in the thick of battle.

He’s at her side in a moment, pulling at her arm, and she lets him. She’s ashamed, but—it hurts.

She twists to look at his face, fearing condescension or a lecture, but his expression is _stricken_ , more than, she thinks, the situation deserves. He sees her see it, and in a moment his face sinks into a more appropriate level of concern.

“How long?” His voice is stern, and she wonders if she’s going to get a lecture after all.

She hesitates, wondering if she should play dumb, and he only grips her arm tighter. “Since the start, more or less,” she sighs. “Not so bad, until after Haven.”

His lips straighten into a line. “Did you not consider that consulting the rift mage with experience in healing your mark might be wise?”

She shrugs, and the motion makes her hiss in pain again. “Didn't want to worry anyone,” she mutters. It sounds utterly stupid and childish, even to her own ears.

But he sighs and relaxes his grip on her arm. “ _Abelas_ , _lethallin_. I am merely upset with myself for not sensing your pain.”

“I think it’s just a trade-off, honestly. I get to close the rifts, it gets to bully me around a little.” Her tone somehow manages to be light despite her gritted teeth. Would this embarrassing episode just end, so she could crawl back into her tent with the scraps of her dignity?

Solas shakes his head, and cups her left hand in his, closing his eyes—a fact she’s glad for, given the sudden flush in her cheeks. She’s suddenly very aware of his closeness, of the warmth of the fire, of his knee where it brushes against her, of how very alone they are in the dark.

He opens his eyes and she schools her expression into what she hopes looks like curiosity. “What is it?”

He’s frowning, mind far away. “The Anchor is… jagged. Perhaps not surprising, given the circumstances.”

“What does that mean, Solas?” She’s struck with a sudden fear that the mark will return to how it was before they sealed that first rift—incapacitating pain at nearly every other step, the light winding its way up her arm towards her heart. _We have to hurry. It’s killing her._

“There’s a blockage, or… impediment, if you will—something between you and it. It’s difficult to explain, but I can fix it, if you wish.”

“How do you know?” She’s unable to disguise the fear in her voice. What if it makes it worse? More powerful, in ways she can’t control?

He looks certain. “Rift magic is the exact area of my expertise, Inquisitor.”

She meets his eyes, and sees only concern there. She takes a deep breath. “All right. I trust you.”

Something flickers in his expression, but it’s too brief for her to follow. “I’ll need to draw on some of your own energy for the spell, if you don’t mind.”

It’s an intimate thing, to touch another mage’s mana. But to stop the pain? She’d cut off an ear, if she had to. “Of course,” she says.

He nods, and cups her left hand again in his, more careful than before. She can feel his calluses. “Close your eyes,” he says.

The pain from the mark has faded to more of a gnawing ache, and the warmth of his hands dims it even more. His fingers hold her hand lightly, tracing the scar there. It’s… not unpleasant.

After a few moments she feels what is unmistakably his presence, nudging against her own as if knocking politely. The feeling is so strange, so foreign, that it takes her a moment to relax the instinctive barriers she throws up. She swears she can feel his amusement, but he lets her take the time to fully ease her defenses before stepping across her threshold.

He gathers a string of her mana and pulls at it—she can feel it unspool from somewhere in her chest, but it’s not painful, just… odd. Almost ticklish. His magic is warm, soft, and ghosts against hers so gently, so precisely.

“This may feel strange,” she hears him say as if from a great distance, though she can still feel how close they are in the flesh.

Slowly, he takes her energy and ties it to his, fusing it into her palm—it’s the oddest feeling, but it’s as though he’s filing away the rough edges of the mark, freeing the snags and tears that had been causing her so much pain.

For half a moment she’s dizzy with vertigo and rooted deep in the earth all at once, both at the crest of a great wave and crushed by it. She looks down and sees the vast expanse beneath her and—is all of that _his_?

Something in her palm snaps, like a bone setting, and the knotted tension of a dozen weeks is gone, just like that.

She blinks away tears when he pulls his hands away, her relief is so great.

“Did I hurt you?” Solas asks, misinterpreting.

She shakes her head and wipes at her eyes, unable to speak for a moment. Her arm is… normal. She flexes it—nothing. She pulls at the veil—nothing. Not even a tingle. She looks up at him, not bothering to hide her awe. “That was… incredible. Thank you, Solas. Truly.”

It must be the fire, but she swears his ears turn pink. “A relatively simple fix. I regret I did not sense what was wrong, but it is as our new friend Cole says--” he smiles, “--your spirit shines brightly. I couldn't see the aberration at first, not even in the fade.”

Now it’s her turn for burning ears. “I admit, I've tried to poke at the mark with my magic before, but it never responded to me like it did for you.”

His lips twist. “As I said, this is ‘my area’, so to speak.”

“Will you teach me?” At his surprised expression, she amends, “Of course, I’m sure you've been studying it for a long time. But it’s a side of magic I’m so unfamiliar with, which seems foolish considering… this.” She holds up the Anchor.

He’s blinking at her, brow furrowed, and she wonders if she’s offended, but then: “I’d be more than happy to teach you what I know. I’m surprised, that is all.” He clears his throat. “If you feel any discomfort, we can repeat the process. It should hold, however, so long as you do not gain any more godlike powers.” His tone is wry.

They sit close by the fire, lapsing into silence again. She’s not sure how she can explain what he’s given her—peace in her own body, freedom, quiet. She feels herself drifting, and has to stop herself from leaning on his shoulder. For weeks she’s been struggling with exhaustion, and without the tension of the mark keeping her going, she can feel sleep overtaking her. She stumbles to her feet, swaying a little. Solas’ hand is at her shoulder to steady her. “I think I should try to catch a few more hours of sleep. It’s going to be a long day,” she says, grimacing a little at the thought of another day hiking in wet boots.

“As you wish,” he says, eyes unreadable as he steps back.

Her smile is a little lopsided, but it’s sincere. “Good night,” she says, “and thank you.”

“Inquisitor,” he says, just as she’s turning away towards the tents, “Lethallin. I—that is, we, your people, value you as more than just a tool.” She’d be tempted to tease him for stammering, if it weren't for the determined expression on his face. “You are not alone in this.”

She tilts her head, considering. Perhaps not. “Neither are you, Solas.” She opens the flap of her tent before he can reply.

When she closes her eyes, she can feel the faint pull of his magic in her hand, its comforting glow a stark change from the stabbing pain that had been there not an hour before. Despite the damp, the rumbling thunder in the distance and the promise of demons in the morning, her nap is the most peaceful sleep she’s had in an age.


End file.
